It Seemed Right
by Obi the Kid
Summary: Season 8, Tag to "Clip Show". The night following Sarah's death.


**TITLE**: It Seemed Right

**AUTHOR:** Obi the Kid

**RATING: **PG

**SUMMARY:** Season 8, Tag to "Clip Show". The night following Sarah's death.

**DISCLAIMER:** The characters of Sam and Dean Winchester and the world of _Supernatural_ do not belong to me, nor do I make any profit from this story. Any typos/errors are all mine!

* * *

"Sammy! Dinner in bed, man, ya can't beat that."

"Not hungry."

"You are and you'll eat if I have to shove it down your throat."

Dean set the food tray on the bed, next to where Sam lay sprawled out on his stomach. In all his exhaustion and heartbreak, helpless as Sarah died, and then the severe doubt about their mission after the fact, he hadn't even taken those few seconds to pull the boots off his feet or the jacket off his back, but instead had just fallen into his bed face first moments after arriving home. What was the point of any of it anyway? Crowley had just proven in all his evilness and power that he could and would kill anyone and everyone they'd saved. Anyone and everyone they'd ever had any type of feelings for. Sarah was only the latest…and the most difficult. Between the toll it was taking on him physically and the emotional toll on top of that, Sam was on the cusp of throwing in that damn towel and just letting it all go.

And his brother playing nursemaid wasn't helping matters.

Lifting his head from the pillow, he glanced back at the tray sitting nearby and then at his brother, who had flipped the chair around to sit close; the chair that Dean had brought into the room weeks ago so he could be near enough to _play _nursemaid.

"It's tuna." Sam finally said, re-burying his face in the pillow.

"Yeah, so?"

"I don't like tuna, Dean."

"Since when? It's healthy, right? You like all that healthy good-for-you crap."

"I've never liked tuna. You know that."

"You really think I can keep track of every single one of your likes and dislikes when it comes to food?"

Exasperated now, Sam lifted his head and rolled onto his side. "It's tuna, Dean. I puked it up all over you when I was seven. In the car. Remember?"

The memory came back and Dean let his eyebrows rise with it as he said, "Oooooh, right. Man, dad was ticked off that day, wasn't he? All over the leather seats and then in the drive stick and even into the radio buttons. Not to mention all over me of course. That was some nasty smelling stuff you barfed up too, little brother. That was tuna, huh?"

"Yes."

"Okay then," the tray was back in his hands, "Be right back."

Sam shouted his name to stop him, but it was too late. And five minutes later, the elder Winchester reappeared with the same tray, but a different sandwich.

"Peanut butter and jelly. And if you tell me you don't like PB&J, I will disown you. Now sit up, eat it and drink your water."

"Dean."

"I mean it, Sam. We're not playing this game anymore. You get these spurts of time when you feel semi-okay, you go out and play Superman, and then you fall on your damn face. Hacking up lungs, your fever spikes and not eating makes it worse."

"You try eating when it all tastes like sewage."

"Humor me, please."

He did and he ate the sandwich. Hungrier than he thought and it did sort of taste like peanut butter. There were a few pretzels on the side that Dean helped himself to when Sam refused them.

"Good, Sam. I'm proud of you."

Dean was giving him a joking smile, but Sam had taken the comment seriously.

"Are you really?"

"What?"

"Proud of me?"

"I said it, right?"

"It was just a peanut butter sandwich, Dean."

"In the state you're in, eating a friggin' _peanut_ would have been a success. This was an entire sandwich. You're not gonna puke it up, are you?"

"Not yet."

"Good." That single word and then Dean set a hand on his brother's forehead. He hadn't needed to. He could feel the heat radiating off of him from the two feet spaced between them. Back pocket held the thermometer that Sam hated so much and Dean reached for it.

"Dean, not again. Come on. I'm not six. I have a fever. We know that. Sometimes it spikes. I don't need…"

The thermometer was jammed into Sam's mouth and under his tongue. "Shut up, Sam." There was a brief 'hmph' of protest, but it didn't last. "You remember the hotel. 107, man. You can't play with things like that. Not taking any chances that you're heading there again." The beep sounded. "103. Huh. It's been running about 102. All of it too high, but this is workable. You need to drink, Sam. And cold compresses."

Again, Dean disappeared, this time into Sam's bathroom. The bunker that seemed to have everything even had a small bathroom for each of the bedrooms, and although each held only a toilet, sink and mirror – the shower room being down the hall – the bathrooms were quite functional. Reaching into the vanity under the sink, Dean pulled out two small hand towels, wet them down with cold water and pushed one onto Sam's forehead; the other onto his neck. To this, there was no protest at all. Sam was now lying on his back, sheets pushed away. As the cool cloths worked, Dean carefully untied Sam's boots and pulled them off his feet before manipulating him out of his jacket. This was followed by one more vanishing act and this time he returned with a small basin of ice water to re-cool the cloths.

Sam eyed his brother as Dean dipped the two towels and set them back in place.

"You're planning on setting up shop for the night, aren't you?"

"If it keeps you alive, yes. You're too torn up right now about Sarah to worry about your own well being."

"She was important to me, Dean," Sam retorted sadly, closing his eyes under the forgiving coolness of the cloth.

"I know she was, Sam. Trust me, I know. And we'll make Crowley pay for what he did, but things are happening fast. And I don't know where all this is taking us, but I'm pretty damn sure that I'm not going to let you die on me. Not again. Been there, done that, got the Hell t-shirt and all that crap. Drink your water." Dean thrust the bottle back into his hand as Sam opened his mouth to say something. "And if even attempt to tell me you are not thirsty, I will shove a tube down your nose or up your throat and…what the hell, Sam? Are you laughing?"

He was. Sort of. "A little. Hurts though."

"Did I say something funny?"

"If you try and stuff a tube _down_ my nose or _up_ my throat, it might take some manipulating and rearranging of my facial features."

A deep breath and Dean thought aloud about his words. "Down the nose and up the throat…oh, I get it. Funny, Sam. Here I am trying to keep you from spontaneously combusting and you're mocking me. Although…"

"No, Dean. Don't even try it."

"Up, down. What's the difference, right? You drink the water from the bottle like a good little brother and you won't have to worry about my directional ineptitude."

Sam drank the water. Another temperature reading had the fever down from 103 to 102. Dean was pleased, but still refusing to leave the room.

"I'll be okay, Dean. Your room is just down the hall. I can yell for you if I need you."

"But you won't."

"I will."

Standing, Dean sighed and looked down at the tired face of the little brother he'd tried so hard to protect for so long. "No lies, Sammy."

"I swear, Dean."

"Fine. But here," Another round of cold rags. "That'll keep for another twenty minutes or so. I'll leave the ice bucket here. Use it if you think the fever is going up again."

Dean left the room but stopped just outside the door frame, unseen. He was waiting for something. A something he knew would come, but not with him in the room. As Winchesters they were masters of sucking in emotions, bottling them up and pushing them down, hopefully to never see the light of day. Many of those emotions eventually _did _see daylight, but never in normal everyday ways. They hadn't known Sarah for long way back when, but it had been one of Sam's biggest regrets, never getting back to see her again. They'd clicked from the beginning. They'd clicked again all these years later. Then a demon ripped her away. Just like mom. Just like Jess. And she was gone, simply because at one point in their lives they had saved hers.

Sam didn't cry often, at least not openly. Strangely enough he was the more at ease of the two brothers, but it was Dean who often times had an easier time expressing emotion. At least when it came to those he cared about. Sam cried now. It was quiet and muffled, but it was there and it was what Dean had been waiting for. Sam wouldn't be happy about him returning to the bedroom, but he also wasn't in much of a condition to argue about it.

This time, Dean ditched the chair for the bedside, sitting just on the edge so as to disturb his brother as least as possible. In silence, he found the two hand towels, re-soaked them and set them back in place. With Sam being on his stomach now, head buried in the pillow, Dean improvised a bit and set one on the back of his neck and one under his shirt, between his shoulder blades.

Still, he stayed quiet. Empty words meant nothing and with the finish line approaching – the third trial – it was better to Sarah's death now than to let it cloud the focus Sam would need later.

So, Dean kept up his vigil. Replacing the towels every twenty minutes as Sam found his control again and started falling into sleep; eventually rolling himself onto his side and closing his eyes.

"S'okay, Dean."

Dean frowned sadly. "It's not even close to being okay, Sam, but one thing at a time, brother."

"You're really gonna stay now, aren't you?"

"Damn right."

And to Dean's surprise, there was no argument. No attempted battle to force him from the room. Just a simple and soft, 'okay' from his physically and emotionally wrecked brother.

Eventually, the older Winchester took up residence a few feet away from the bed, forcing comfort in the upright position of the hard metal chair. Sam had gone quiet after a time, exhausting into a restless sleep. Dean nosed around the room for a moment, until something caught his eye on the dresser. A comic book. An old one. Something about Knights of the Round Table. Hadn't Sam mentioned something about a comic like this a couple weeks back during their hunt for Metatron? This wasn't that exact book, but it was similar, wasn't it? Dean's fuzzy memory of long ago snagged on bits and pieces of what Sam had talked about during his feverish haze at that time. He'd read to him from a comic like this. When Sam was small. It was one of the chores of the big brother, one Dean recalled that he hadn't minded all that much. Sam was a listener. As a child, he'd give you his full and direct attention, especially when it came to Dean. Following him like a puppy and living on his every word. And reading time? Well that became an expected part of their every night, especially when dad wasn't around. Dean would read from beat up old story book or torn up comics each night before bed. No matter the subject or hero, Sam soaked it up.

So many years later…after an endless string of death and loss and torment…Dean wondered.

Glancing across the room at the large form on the bed, he saw his little, but not so little, brother…restless. No doubt the nightmares would come soon, inflamed by the encouragement of the fever that stubbornly refused to stay down. It was already

past midnight. Dean knew he'd find no sleep of his own, not after the events of the day…not knowing how much his brother was hurting in so many damn ways. So, there came another idea. One sparked by Sam's memories of the past and his current need for something familiar. An idea that seemed right.

The metal chair pulled up bedside, Dean sat again and flipped through the pages of the comic. "Okay, Sammy, if you _ever_ say anything to anyone about this, I will kick your ass so hard, you won't sit for a week. Don't think I won't."

Sam's shoulders twitched, agitated, as the bad dreams tried to take hold. Then Dean started reading from the comic. That silly feeling of what-the-hell-am-I-doing, came over him almost immediately, but he continued reading and watched as Sam's shoulders stopped their jerking and his hands stopped their intermittent spasms. Twenty minutes in, the form of Dean's extra large little brother had eased into a comfortable sleep; breathing steadily in and out to the undemanding tone of the elder's tenor voice.

And when Sam woke the next morning, he peered to his right, rubbing at his eyes to make sure he wasn't imagining things. Dean was there. Slumped uncomfortably in the chair, chin resting on his chest, comic book open and clenched in his hand. The scene brought a rare smile to the younger brother's face. It was a warm smile.

One reserved only for is big brother during those moments when Dean somehow managed to surprise him. One of those moments…like now. His monster-hunting, evil-fighting, been-to-Hell-and-back, big brother had read to him most of the night from the comic book Sam had picked up the week prior. It was something he never would have expected, but also something that only Dean could pull off. And although Sam didn't remember all the words he'd heard while floating in and out of his unconscious world, he did remember the reassurance and comfort behind those words.

Slowly, he inched from his bed, ran hands through his mussed hair and stumbled quietly to the bedroom door. An affectionate glance at his brother, the comic book in his hand, and thoughts about Dean actually reading a bedtime story to his thirty year old little brother…and Sam knew now. He knew what he had to do. The only thing he could do. Briefly, he'd lost his way watching Sarah die, but now, the doubt was gone. He would shut the gates of Hell. He would end every demon that brought nothing but hurt and heartache to so many people for so many years. He would finish this for them. For Sarah. For Jess. For their mom. For their dad.

Most importantly, he would finish this for Dean.

Standing in the doorway now, hands on either side to brace himself upright, Sam held eyes on his dozing brother.

"I got this, Dean. I can do this. Shut the gates forever. No matter the cost. I won't let you down. Not again. Not ever again."

And with that, he turned down the hall for the kitchen. It was a 9 AM. Breakfast seemed like a good idea. He was hungry, for a change. And no half-drunk beer

and peanut butter cups either. Not for Dean. Not after last night. Bacon, eggs, waffles…that seemed the better route to start them on their final push towards the slamming the gates of Hell forever. It also seemed a good Winchester way to say thank you.

One could never go wrong with bacon, eggs and waffles.

An hour later, a robe-clad Dean wandered into the library room. Watching his entire face light up at sight of the caloric-filled spread on the table, Sam offered an easy smile.

A nonstop torrent of pain and loss was behind them. The end of Hell was in front of them. Along with it - the unknown. But still…they were brothers. So yeah…bacon, eggs, waffles? Right about now, that seemed right.

* * *

The End.


End file.
